Yasoukyoku
by Chikita
Summary: The deep contemplations and guilt of a wandering pilot in the rain...implications of 34 - rating for suicide and implcations thereof.


Yasoukyoku - Nocturne

Outside in the dark of the night the rain fell steadily, hitting the stainless steel metal roof of the dank, dimly lit tavern. It fell with the constant rhythm of sounding like a pair of chopsticks on a pair of steel drums playing the same morose tune over and over. There was no crash of thunder or electrical burst of lightening across the near blacken sky of night that remained heavily clouded over. Within the limits of the tavern sat cold huddled masses of depressed beings that drowned their sorrows in the liqueur of choice. They sought to find reassurance at the bottoms of the near clean crystalline glasses that the brown liquor came in.

At the far end of the long bar sat a hunched over lone figure. His finger was barely within his glass. He traced it around, barely touching the white foam that topped his choice of domestic beer that he had decided to find solace in. He hadn't really sipped from the mug yet, only stared with desolate emerald eyes into the near foamless golden contents of his glass. 

With assistance from the dim light, the once dark golden beer was a light gold; the same colour as the hair of a certain golden haired, aquamarine eyed angel that the young man of twenty ached for. He could only stare with mesmerised longing into the deep liquid contents of the mug that sat on the counter in front of him.

Dejectedly, he sighed. His vision was clouded over with images of a youth that he had fallen hard for, but never had the guts to utter three simple words to. Why, because he feared rejection. It would just be easier to wait for the more sociable of the two pilots to have done it. That was the reasoning that this young man had. 

He contemplated deeply drinking the rest of the lightly fizzing contents of the sweet alcohol that sat still in the clear mug that his hands clutched. Bringing his long slender finger out of the deep, dark golden contents of the mug, he brought his finger to his mouth, lightly licking the intoxicatingly delicious liquid from his finger.

Pushing the mug towards the server, the young man fished in his till he found the crumpled bill he had been carrying with him. Taking it out of his pocket, he dropped it to the counter top next to his barely near empty mug of domestic beer. 

Placing his hands on the brass rail that lined the bar top counter, he pushed the chair stool he sat in back and retrieved his waist length dark windbreaker. Slipping it on over his head, he brushed from his face his long unibang. His face had become laden with light perspiration from sitting in the dank smoky dive that barely passed for a sub-decent bar. It would feel nice to have the cool falling rain hit his face and wash away the moisture that rested on his visage. It also would serve to hopefully remove the stench of nicotine from his clothes as he trudged home to his single's apartment. 

It wasn't in the best of the choices for neighbourhoods. But it did if one was a male and they could stick up for themselves. It didn't hurt that he also carried a gun within the depths of his thin windbreaker. It served to be handy if he was ever in a tight situation. It was from his days as a pilot. That dated back a good four to five years. The gun itself, he never had actually shot anyone with it. But he had drawn and come hells near close to shooting a few heads off. 

It had been about a year since he had been around any of his fellow ex-pilots. Namely a certain blonde haired one that he had been observing with immense fascination. At first he had stopped himself from keeping his sights fixated upon the aquamarine eyed youth that he had met at the start of Operation Meteor. He had told himself it had been nothing more than mere lust. Thus, it was worthless to pursue someone of a higher class than himself.

With his hands jammed into the pockets of his form fitting jeans, he pushed open the swinging door to the dank sleazy bottom of the heap last choice dive, lame attempt to pass for a decent bar, pub. Once outside, he cast a listless glance up at the flickering neon sign that had a few randomly burnt out letters before turning his back on the tavern he had found himself trudging into for something to do. More precisely, trying to find an escape from his frequent delusions and aches and longing of the heart that plagued him day and night.

A long drawn out sigh escaped from his mouth as he dropped his sights to the ground. His sharp green eyes watched the dancing puddles of water on the ground as the heavily pouring rain penetrated the surfaces of those growing ponds of water. The ripples took on possible distinct shapes of the angelic face of the sweet angel that he had long ago fallen hard for.

A faint trace of tears escaped from his eyes and slipped down the curves of his face. Although the falling crystal liquid from his eyes didn't hit the ground, the rain that lanced around him acted to serve as the trigger to disperse the image that he was seeing in the puddle. Slowly, the water of the puddle continued to rapidly ripple.

The shattering image was a stake through his heart and a stingingly painful reminder of his cowardice. The intimation of his stupidity and fear that had left him single with only a cracked soul to live with. It followed him day and night, through rain and shine. It never left him. For a year he had wallowed and trudged lonely through the winding curving street of cruel, demented sadistic fate.

The vice grip of fate that trampled over his soul, leaving in irreparable shard remains. It wound itself around him and twisted; crushing the essence of his soul as though it was nothing more than just merely a paper cup. It wrecked him; left him with nothing but the self-consuming Eden of depression. Everyday, in the heat of the depression that followed him, his world would further crash down around him.

The self-contained universe that he resided within had no colour; it was only monochromatic and lacked true inspiring life. Only the harshness reared its ugly, unwanted face there. Nothing was sacred. Everything was stolen from him; nothing was left within his clutches. It left him with not only a shattered heart, but also a world without any brightness. It was only a swirling black vortex that a waited him at every turn threatened to even violently strip him of the life he tried to cling to. Everyday was a war to make it through to the next without throwing in the towel of perseverance and officially surrendering the essence of his existence over to the comforting long reaching hand of death that trailed him to each corner. The Elysium that waited seemed so rewarding and so comforting after the long stroll through the purgatorial fires of reality.

Taking a step, he dropped his stride forward; his foot scattering the matter that made up the puddle that had he been vacantly with a longing heart stared into, silently crying. Sloshing through the water, he continued his venture forward through the torrential downpour that he stood in, his hair getting damp. His long unibang was weighed down by the falling rain that fell steadily down on them, causing the long bangs to become plastered to the young man's already wet face. He desolately kept his gaze down at the ground, his hands deeply jammed within his pockets. His back wasn't straight, as he had hunched shoulders and a bent neck, his sad, vacuous, sightless emerald eyes saw nothing but the rough pavement of the road, as he crossed, heedless to any oncoming traffic.

His steps were slow and dragged out as he plodded on, headlights surrounding his hunched, trudging figure as the oncoming driver panicked. Hitting the brakes, the car swerved over the slick wet surface of the road. As the car ground to a screeching halt, the stench of burning rubber was caught on the air. When the vehicle had found its stop, it had spun and faced the other direction and sat within the boundaries of the other lane, facing the oncoming traffic from the west. 

Oblivious to the path of destruction his steps and trail left behind as he trudged to his flat he called home, for now, he kept up his dragging stride. He really had nothing to find there. There was the presence of a few miserable college course textbooks, a few measly cans of Diet Pepsi, sparse furnishings and a vacant feeling of nirvana that encompassed the small one bedroom apartment he currently had on rent. Or rather would have, since upon his impending arrival to his life inside a small boxed in hell, he would find a small pile of useless, worthless mail and a 30-day warning notice, since it had been more than a month since he dished out his overdue rental fees.

He hadn't had a moment to find out his fate. He was still miserably plodding back to his lousy, sewer soaked cesspool, dank roach-infested, bacteria ridden, fungus growing hellhole, that reeked of a stale, foul stench. Through the torrential down pouring ice cold, bone-chilling rain he walked, his feet near dragged. As his soul sunk to new lows, leaving his body entirely. He came grim, painful realisation that his lack of ability to come to terms with his emotions in order to get a grip and to take the risk of confessing would have likely saved him from the self-inflicted stinging pain of a slowly anguishing deterioration of his pathetic existence. 

The thin dark windbreaker that covered his back clung to him, as it dripped, drenched heavily with chilling, freezing, transparent liquid. It was soaked through and through. The almost paper thin material that composed the material of the jacket was next to see through as it hung, clinging to the well-shaped form of the young man, wandering through the night in the cold of the falling rain drops. The total dampness of his supposed water-resistant jacket had soaked through, getting his shirt damp and getting cold, damp stale moisture on his once-warm flesh. It sent rapid lancing electrical shots of coldness through his body. He momentarily shivered. 

Taking his dry hands from his pockets, he held them around his elbows, but above the curve in the joint. Resting his hands there, they soon became soaked and ridden with goose bumps, as they too were no longer subjected to the warmth of his pockets. The rain trickled from his hands in long streams of rivers, as droplets fell in clusters, sending searing chills of aching cold through his exposed flesh.

Soaked from head to toe, the emerald-eyed ex-pilot never noticed the trail of bittersweet salty tears that lanced his face in long, thin narrow rivers of remorseful regret. Unchecked, they coursed the unreadable, expressionless, devoid of natural human emotion mask that he hid behind. They mixed with the fallen droplets of cold rain that hit his face, after dripping from his drenched hair. The melancholic tears that fell unheeded from his sightless, unseeing eyes and coursed his face, fell from his face down to join up with the rest of the rain that fell around him.

He was no where near home as he continued his pointless, perpetual trudge through the nothingness of reality. Giving up, he collapsed on a park bench that was covered in small rivers of gathering diminutive lakes of lucid rain. His back pressed against the weak, creaking bench back and his arms lay listlessly folded over his chest, as he stared into the endless nirvana of absolute desolation.

A long drawn out, dejectedly, morose self-piteous exhalation of breath in the form of a grunting sigh came from the ex-pilot, as he rested his chin on his hands, his elbows on his knees. Vacantly with an empty, feelingless soul, he stared out across the rolling parkland of the polluted over-populated suburbs of the slums of the colonies, as the falling rain from the dark ominous clouds above fell relentlessly, soaking and drenching everything within its path of wanton disregard and pointlessly satisfying destruction. 

Long painful moments of gruelling lonely vapid solitude sank deeply and penetrated the psyche of the immensely morose unibang ex-pilot. Within those allocations, more sharp striking images of the one he wanted but couldn't have bombarded his consciousness. It was a grim, anguishing reminder that it was his own damned stupidity and fault that landed him in the plight he was drowning in at this instant.

That little nuisance voice that lurked in the back of his mind kicked in and harshly commenced another brutal, seemingly limitless round of guilt infliction and ruthless, stinging nagging that would echo in the vault of his mind. Days on end he would hear his inner voice prodding in ruthlessly, constantly informing him of his mistakes and how it was solely his own doing that he wound up in the lousy situation he was in. That it was his own fault that shattered his own soul into thousands of pieces that couldn't be glued back together.

He shook his head violently; he had to get rid of that piercing, penetrating haunting voice that rung through his head. Instead it didn't dim; it only resounded, bouncing off the walls of his mind. Each blow was a stinging stab that sent a thousand tiny bolts of pained shock through his mind relentlessly. It wouldn't leave; it just remained, as it had for the last few years. It knew the Achilles' heal of its master. It didn't just prod gently; it ruthlessly bombarded his mind with a ringing sensation.

His face was buried in his wet, damp hands, as he could no longer scatter the presence of that piercing nagging voice that lodged itself in the depths of his mind. The unibang ex-pilot could only further surrender into the miserable existence he had only known. He had only seen bursts of daylight; the rest of the time he lived in the dark of the night that only knew guilt, sadness, distrust and discomfort. With the surrender, everything fragile that had been not completely left in shattered, shard ruins now lay in such a mess of ebony ashen dust.

The outside world was locked out. Nothing from it could penetrate the psyche of the young man, as he sat on the abandon, lone deteriorating park bench, hunched over, his hands over his face, the rain pounding down around him. Additionally, he could no longer even see the ground that lurked below him. His unseeing eyes had truly become sightless with the submission into the absolution of self-guilt and relinquishment of one's soul.

Pushing himself up from the place where he sat, he forced his feet to at least drag his person back to the dank hellhole where he lived, for the time being. Instead of walking with his hands rested on his arms they had been; with step in the direction of his flat, he again had his hands shoved down in the pockets of his tight jeans.

The curving street down which he walked was dimly lit with over hanging lights. Some lit the wet, damp black pavement strongly while others flickered, threatening to fade out like a candle before the wind. The stronger lights shone brightly off the road, hitting the road, landing in the shapely puddles that met the sightless emerald eyes that gazed down forlornly. Seeing only haunting images of the sweet aquamarine eyed angel he gave up in favour of maintaining his dignity, so he wouldn't suffer the painful driving stake of reject that would pierce his soul, he sighed. 

The gentle torrential downpour that surrounded him only further dampened his low spirits, if such a thing was possible. The rain didn't tumble down from the overcast sky on a slant; it only fell in a straight curtain with an indefinable angle. The drops that feel from the sky were large, much like the drops of water that fall from a leaky tap. Clear droplets fell rapidly, coursing his face.  
  
Again, a breathy, dejected morose sigh escaped from the tall young man. Instead of keeping his eyes plastered eternally to the shining, wet pavement of the ground up his he stood, finally stopping in his tracks just barely beneath an overpass. The bridge stood more than a mere half dozen stories up from the ground. The rail that barricaded the boundaries of the edge was comprised of fortified concrete stone.

His sights watched the bridge above, drinking it in without meaning or feeling. He didn't squint to make out the lurking dark shadowed figure that loomed above, seeming to be dropping something. The object wasn't clear at first. Once the rain caught what was being dropped, it seemed as though there was snow falling from the sky, yet the cold, dampness of the night didn't have the required subzero temperature to produce the frozen rain that would be the white snow that would fall to the ground.

Perplexed, he watched this bizarre fluttering down white tiny chunks, he made note that it wasn't anything natural. It was flaking paper that had been torn a thousand times over into pieces of shard, unevenly broken confetti. Seeing this brought a pang of stinging tears to his eyes; it just painfully reminded him of the spirit he once had that had shattered and was caught on the wind. It had been blown away though it was nothing but a burnt out pile or worthless ashes.

Briefly on the overpass, he thought he saw the vague outline of the hovering figure that leaned on the rail, as the headlights of a car approached and retreated quickly. The person he hoped to set sights on would be his desired innocent angel. But that would be asking the cruel heavens too much. Such a taste of paradise was as illegal as the sweet fruit of knowledge.

Exhaling softly, he stepped around the scattered paper, not noting the script of one particular piece. It was elegant, written with a fine point pen. The script itself wasn't of the Roman alphabet; rather, it was written in the Arabic hand. Carefully, it had been written. If one was to glance closely, they might notice that it was two distance words that had the remains of some lines around them. But that was unintelligible, as the falling cold watery rain from the sky hit the frayed section of paper, smearing the ink, causing it to run. In long streaks, the carefully scripted words slipped off the page and into nothingness.

Amongst the fragmented pieces of paper, was blood that had fallen on the sheets had they had been brutally ripped, torn and frayed ruthlessly by its master before they were snowed down to the ground below. The paper itself had one been a parchment that was of the white shade, with a light hue of yellow to it. But now, it was strongly faded into the scarlet colours and was stained with fresh, sacrificial blood.

On the pavement behind his retreating back fell another object. Before it connected with the ground, the swirling object spun so the brilliant metal caught the light. The blade shone, revealing the stainless steel that it was crafted of and the dripped fresh scent human fluid that heavily laced it. The tip of the finely crafted dagger hit the surface of the rough, gravelled asphalt with a soft yet resounding ping. Time was suspended for a moment. Then a moment later, echoing through the engulfing silence, the hand, an example of exquisite craftsmanship, hit the ground with a dull, unceremonious thud. Upon making the standard contact with the ground, the wooden handle bounced off the surface. It did shatter upon its initial contact. It sent flying pieces of small wood splinters. As those tiny particles were caught on the air, the handle went teacup over saucer and the sharp, recently sharpened blade loudly hit the ground, with an echoing clang. After another moment of unrest for the finely shaped and crafted long duelling dagger came to a steady rest upon the ground without another sound.

The red stain on the stainless steel blade slowly trickled off as the raining water hit it and washed it off. Slowly the traces of a sin were washed away into the gentle rushing streams that ran along the sides of the road into puddles. The scarlet red blood fell from the blade, mixing in with the fallen water, as more fell, trickling down from a dangling arm that hung limply from the overpass.

The dangling arm that hung over the overpass didn't move. Just the hand flexed and relaxed once. The escaping life giving fluid brightly stained the pale skin that glowed lightly under the yellow of the hanging streetlight. The master of that hand and bleeding wrist falls forward, balancing himself against the fortified concrete barrier. Giving up after a moment, he collapsed, his face rested on the upper portion of his arms. 

His face and head are cloaked by a hood that falls over, shielding off most of his face, except just his mouth. Slowly the pale, blood drained, cracked, dried lips move, trying to for a word, a name, a cry, anything. But he doesn't get a chance to finish, for his body caves into the blood loss and faints into a dead state of unconsciousness. He no longer leans on the fortified concrete barrier, in a pool of his own bright scarlet red blood he lies, his life stolen from him by his own hand and will.

In a mangled heap, he lies on the ground, ignored by the sparse number of vehicles that speed by, spraying water over his defunct figure that lays drowning in the cesspool of his trickling stream of blood. The river that flows from his open self-inflicted wound is limitless without any human bounds to it.

Slowly, the rain turned into something else. The temperature dropped and the dropping moisture from the sky became snow. The sound of falling snow brought no comfort to the tortured soul of the young man who trudged home to the place he never had the heart to call home, for it was vacant and empty. It served no purpose for him.

The white flakes that clustered in lumps and fell, fluttering to the ground covered all signs of death and sin. It covered the tracks of escapement. But it left a telltale trail. As he wandered to his flat, the fallen snow began to lightly crunch under the soles of his shoes. The soothing sound of the crunching pure white snow under his feet didn't capture his fancy. 

The falling, fluttering down, raining flakes of snow weren't tiny but rather large yet soft. Dropping lightly, they froze upon contact with the ground. The surface of the road began blanketed with the white innocence of winter. 

The dampened, wet long bang of the young man slowly became heavily crusted with snow and ice. The cold of the night served to leave the presence of icicles from his hair and the fallen snow lightly rested upon it. 

The snow that fell gracefully from the overcast dark starless night sky above mixed and mingled with falling rain to make for a beautiful night. It would be a beautiful night if a person did glance around to drink in the beauty of the snow. The road wasn't an example of the divine elegance of the falling moisture from the opened sky aloft. 

Nor was the footprint ridden, dank, odour ridden, aged, faded-out cheap tacky so-called carpeting of the entrance of the apartment complex. The long running carpet was notably damp. Under the step of the ex-pilot, the surface produced a distinct squish, as some lodged water sprang up, forming a diminutive lake, as he plodded through the stuffy entrance. Briefly making a stop, he fished his few keys from his pocket. His graceful fingers fumbled to grasp the thin, brass key to insert it into mailbox keyhole, slot number fifteen-twenty. Gently prying the pygmy mailbox slot open, he slide his hand in, retrieving the batch of ten envelopes, not bothering to check over the assortment of addresses that adorned the front side on the upper left side where the return address would be scripted in.

Thrusting his key into the pocket of his tight, form fitting jeans, he clutched the mail stack in his hand. He didn't take the lift, for his shoebox flat was located on the main floor of the high rise complex. Softly wandering, his hands rested on the handle of the glass doorway.

The glass wasn't perfectly clean; it was due for a date with the Windex and an old dishrag. There was a thin photochemical-like layer of grime that stained it. This would prove to be a reprieve for the ones that didn't wish to view their loathed reflections for one reason or another. It was also a sad reminder of the mask that each of the despondent residents of this simple, basic single's apartment complex bore everyday. They used it to hide their secrets and their broken hearts.

The hall down which he travelled in the pit of cruel, anguishing silence, was lit by lines of softly humming, flickering florescent lights. Around the humming, buzzed tiny insects that were drawn to the intoxicating sound. It spared the lone individual in their walk down the green mile; for the walls were painted a strong, dull fading dark forest green.

With a medium size copper coloured key with a rectangular top and a long grooved bottom with sharp teeth, in hand; the young man paused before the door to his flat. The number on the door was distinguished by a set of four brass digits that were ordered to read: fifteen-twenty. The frame that lined the door was a dull, lifeless light grey that held the appearance of faded age to it. There was the faint indication of peeling and another layer of paint beneath the light dull grey that attired the wooden frame. The frame protruded about an inch or so. The door itself wasn't the same grey. Rather it had been tinted with a darker, stronger, a more lively grey than what the framed was treated with. The hue of the shade was dark in direct comparison to the lighter, complimenting shade that bordered it softly. Contrary, the paint that covered the door was smooth and distinctly unbroken. It seemed fresh. There weren't even signs of cracking around where the round keyhole and where the circular brass-copper alloy knob had been lodged.

The key that he lightly clutched in his hand was carefully inserted into the first keyhole. Turning the lock, a simple click was heard. Withdrawing the pass from the keyhole, he then inserted the same objected in the thin, narrow slot of the knob. With the key in hand, his slender, damp, chilled hand encompassed the cold brass of the doorknob and turned it in order to gain entry access to his shoebox flat.

Stripping off the clinging soaked, stiff, ice encrusted, paper thin near transparent windbreaker from his back, he dropped it to the floor of his flat, at the same instance that he slipped off his black docs. The floor of his shoebox apartment was hardwood. Upon it was a thin layer of invisible dust that erupted with the brushing steps he took over the surface, as he made his way to the bathroom.

The floor was the same through the entire place, not changing until he entered the closet bathroom. The tiles on that floor were cold, blandly beige colour thin squares of ceramic tiles with no pattern, only a dull uniformed appearance to them. On the ceramic tiled floor of the bathroom was a near empty laundry bin. The lid had been left off for sometime.

Stripping the saturated shirt from his back, he held it in hand before tossing it with accuracy into the bin that was behind the door. 

With the door shut, he leaned on the limited counter space. For a moment, with a vacant glance, he watched his reflection in the mirror for a minute. His dull, listless and near sightless blurry and teary emerald eyes danced over it. Out of frustration, as another set of eyes came to light, he brought his fist up. Violently it hit the glass with force and shattered the crystal of the reflective pond into millions of shard remains that crumpled down to the floor of the bathroom. It rained down and landed around his feet in a pile or ruined remains. 

He stared hatefully at his fist as blood seeped from the violently torn and forced open self-inflicted wound. Bright scarlet, red plasma fluid dripped and trickled down his hand and past his wrist onto his pale, bare exposed damp epidermis. Dropping his hand down by his side, he ignore the dull throbbing pulsating pain that jolted through in electrical burst of searing anguishing stings.

In the blindness of his painful loss, physical hurt and angered debacle, he kicked his foot through the pile of glass shards, not caring that his foot, like his hand became a lodging for sharp penetrating pieces of fleshing tearing glass. He again feigned ignorance to the pain that shot up his leg, as the glass penetrated and in sharp tacks pierced the callous exteriors of his feet.

With his mind not focus in an intense concentration on the consuming agony that lanced through his body, he uninjured hand flew up and forcefully tore open the medicine cabinet and pulled out a small bottle. Without checking the label, he departed from the bathroom back to the living room, if one could call it that and dropped onto the second-hand futon-sofa that he used for a bed. 

Falling purposely and spiritlessly into the familiar shaped groove that was implanted on it, he placed the bottle down next to him. His slender hand then reached over next to him. He picked up a long thin, silver flute from the futon. Holding it in hand, a small amount of blood from his wound that was upon his scarred knuckles, trickled down, staining the body of the flute. Turning it, the clean lustrous metal caught the light. The fresh sanguine fluid stained the body of the instrument and it too shone under the light. Contrary, only as a reminder of the scars that followed him through the night and the days.

With a sad, melancholic sigh, he raised the flute to his dry, cracked lips. Gracefully his slender fingers flew over the keys of the instrument. The haunting melody that filtered out was sharp, piercing and painstakingly and heart-wrenchingly depressing. It was a shot story about the pain of loss and the inability to confess ones feelings for fear of rejection. While his soul poured out through the opened keyholes of the flute, down his dry, tear strained visage, yet another river of free flowing, unheeded and unacknowledged tears streamed rapidly, gaining speed as a rush broke through the floodgates.

His hands shook and tensed. They were constricted by the binds of absolute desolate depression that consumed the essence of the ex-pilot. The flute then fell from his hands and landed on the floor, a loud resounding clang of metal hit the hard wood. After a moment, the instrument rested upon the surface, undisturbed. The bloodstains that had tainted it remained and the sins didn't dissipate as they had with the blade. 

In a complete unconditional surrender, he dropped his face in his hands, his body racked with silent, unseen sobs. He knew that this was truly his fault and the image he saw looming above the overpass was truly what his delusive mind believe to be there. It was all too true. 

At first it had been his soul speaking and not his mind but the headlights that shone briefly on the bridge displayed a true image that couldn't be denied. The paper that had fallen had more meaning that he ever in his wildest dreams imagined. Finally, the clanging of the flute in his mind warped into a swirling, menacing vortex, before it took on the distinct sound of a metallic blade tumbling down and striking the rain cover pavement upon which he had stood. 

His deaden, pain-ridden sights had missed the dagger, but the echoing, unearthly sound had penetrated the vault of his memory and lodge itself there. Over and over, the same dull sound played. It was a broken record that wouldn't relent the hold on its victim. He couldn't scatter the sound that clutched his mind it was too powerful. Even the soft, once serene, docile images that rained down on his senses were coming on strong. It was all too real and too notably painful. 

Not all the denial in the world would release him from the long cold twisted, gnarled iron hand of retributive justice. The vice, pinching grip it held on his was inescapable. He could only lay and cessation all his merit. That was his only remaining choice in the self-brought-about hell. This was the cesspool he had dug for himself, now he had to lay and wait for the outsiders to cover the grave he lay in, dying slowly. If not physically, it would be emotionally.

He couldn't take it.

No more. There were limits.

Another night of insomnia was upon him. The dark hours were waning dangerously. The dawn of another pained day of pointless, dreary living awaited him. He just desired rest. Simple rest was all he wanted right now. A way to vanquish the images and sounds that blitzed his mind without mercy.

In desperation, he reached for the prescription he had on hand. Forcing the child proof lid open, he dispensed into his shaking, slender hand a number that was doubled what had been given to him to take. 

Taking a utensil from the coffee table, with shaking, sweaty hands, he crushed the tiny pale blue tablets into a fine power and drained it into the glass of water that sat on the table, half-empty. He watched the contents thoroughly dissolve in glass before he moved. His pained emerald eyes watched the still, serene, tranquil, undisturbed yet deadly liquid.

Reaching out a hand, he swiftly downed the bland water without a second thought. The lukewarm liquid coursed his dry, parched throat, gently rushing down the length. He finished swallowing it, but didn't shut his eyes. He only stared with blank sights across the length of the room. Everything was indistinguishable. It was fuzzy, hazy. It blurred together into whiteness before becoming black.

He fell back on the futon. Before he did, he started to utter something. His voice was soft, hoarse and barely above an audible whisper. "Quatre...I..."

But he never finished. He had begun to ask for forgiveness from the one he loved, but his words fell off and trailed off, unfinished. His world diminished into a watery pool of blackness without life or anything.

Silence...eternal serenity.


End file.
